Ian Slater - Choke Point

“Bullshit!” came a chorus of outraged Petrel crewmen. Sandra, in temporary relief from the morphine shot the second mate had given her, shook her head slowly in disgust. It was Freeman’s team who’d done it, first slowing and then damaging it further, and finally Aussie Lewis disabling it so it couldn’t escape, enabling the Petrel to finish it off. The hydrofoils were late to the show.

“It’s fitting indeed, Ryan,” replied the fair-haired coanchor with the “to die for” looks. “I know all America and our allies in this ongoing war against terrorism will heave a great sigh of relief and extend their gratitude to the U.S. Navy.”

“Best in the world,” said the anchor, shuffling his papers with an air of efficiency and confidence de rigueur for those who wanted to get ahead — even if, as Freeman sourly observed, “they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.”

“Sure as hell don’t. It was you guys who did it,” commented Tiny. “I dunno — first reports are always cocked up.”

“Hydrofoil guys are taking the damn credit,” voiced Jimmy.

“No,” said Freeman. “Not their fault. It’s nighttime, no one can see a damn thing. Probably talked to a reporter on the radio phone. Static all over — hydrofoil guy says the sub’s sunk, rammed by Petrel . Reporter can’t hear it probably, thinks what he heard was ’petrol’—probably thinks the sub was afire and rammed. Line cuts out and all he’s heard is that the sub’s sunk. Every war I’ve been in — you’re right, son — first reports are always ’cocked up.’ “

“It’ll get straightened out,” said the first mate.

Though the rush of relief flooding over them was a well-known experience for the team and the veterans of the Iraqi wars among Petrel ’s crew, for most, the surge of success, exaggerating their own part in “getting the sub,” bordered on hysteria. It was infused in part by the real and present danger they had faced on board what had been an essentially defenseless ship while being machine-gunned. The death of one of their number and the condition of Sandra would dampen their celebratory remarks later on, but right now the sudden turn of fate from being victims to victors was too powerful for them to moderate their behavior. Cookie was all but unmanageable in his adolescent fervor, raining insults down at the fog-shrouded depths where the broken sub now lay.

“General’s a bit sullen,” the cook told Aussie while lighting up a cigarette.

“Uh-huh,” Aussie replied noncommittally. Criticism of Freeman by those in his own team was one thing, but Cook wasn’t in the team. How could he be expected to understand the present reserve of a man generally known for his garrulousness and forthrightness, Aussie thought, a man who had become a legend because at crucial times he had neither behaved nor thought like other men.

“He’s probably exhausted,” added the bosun, sensing Lewis’s quiet disapproval.

“Guess we all are,” said Aussie, but in truth he had also been struck by Freeman’s increasingly down mood. Was it churlishness that he, Douglas Freeman, would not reap the glory that was the fuel of his insatiable ego? Another Patton or MacArthur?

Walking past the general, now a solitary figure in the penumbra of the deck lights, Aussie said lightheartedly, “I lost a good pair of boots back there.”

The general, leaning on the gunwale, his focus somewhere in the fog, didn’t respond.

“History’ll know, General.”

“Have you ever seen such fanaticism?” the general asked Aussie. “That machine gunner? Those three coming up out of that hellhole after you’d blasted them silly?”

Aussie thought back, a string of desperate firefights crowding his memory. “Maybe once,” he said. “Funny thing is, it was a Republican Guard, during that punch-up we had ’round Hadiya.”

Freeman stood up and looked across at Aussie. “To hate America that much. That’s what we’re up against, Aussie.”

Aussie nodded. “Formidable.”

“That’s the word.”

“Well, General, we’ve won this round.”

“Yes,” said Freeman, right thumb and forefinger massaging his forehead. “There’s something—” He paused. “—something bothering me.” He stopped massaging himself and, arms akimbo, took a deep breath. “Know what I mean? A feeling. I’ve missed something.”

“We’ll find out more when we bring that sucker up,” said Aussie. “Go through it. Might find out who did it — Chinese or towel heads.”

Freeman unexpectedly laughed. “You want to win your bet?” Before Aussie could answer, Freeman added, “A few Asians so far, only a couple of Chinese.”

Aussie was glad to see the general loosening up, and promised himself as soon as they got ashore at Port Angeles he’d try to contact Marte Price, set her straight about just what did happen, make sure Freeman got his full measure of recognition — well, the team too. He was encouraged to do it because, after his chat with the general, he realized that what the cook and no doubt others had interpreted as a sullen exhibition of petty ego was in fact a leader’s concern. The general, famous for attention to minutiae, was bothered by something like a detail in a persistent dream that takes flight the moment you wake, yet remains in the background of your mind all day.

Admiral Crowley had just had his second and last coffee of the day. Any more and he knew he’d feel on edge. Especially after the kamikaze attack, which, despite the absence of the kind of proof that would stand up in a court of law, everyone on the carrier believed was instigated by the Communist Chinese air force to cow, or at least slow, the carrier from advancing further into the Taiwan Strait and effectively refereeing the two-China “incident,” as Beijing was calling the two-China war.

Now, Crowley’s voice was at once serious and upbeat as he addressed McCain ’s air wing.

“Gentlemen, we all know just how badly the Navy’s been hit at home. There isn’t a man or woman on the boat who hasn’t known or lost someone during the rampage of that sub’s attacks in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. A lot of folks on the other vessels in our battle group have also lost loved ones. But I’m here to tell you that initial reports of the sub’s demise have been confirmed.”

There was whooping and clapping throughout the aviators’ ready rooms and the other departments in the boat.

“Admiral Jensen, COMSUBPAC Group 9, has verified that two of his hydrofoil fast patrol boats witnessed the kill.”

“Who were they?” Chipper Armstrong asked his squadron intel officer. “The terrorists?”

“No verification on that, Commander.”

“Now, gentlemen, I have a second announcement.” Everyone who’d done at least one tour with Crowley knew that the big news always came last. “As you know, one of our SSNs missiled Penghu. Satellite BDAs confirm wind deflection, courtesy of Typhoon Jane, extended the missiles’ CEP. Some PLA planes were destroyed, but not — I repeat, not —the runway, ’least not enough to prevent quick repair. The President has therefore asked if we can do the job before the PLA can land aircraft resupply.”

There was some braggadocio, but others were silent. There was that big hole in their roof.

“Any flier has the right to pass this one up without prejudice to his service record.”

The admiral waited for reports from all the ready rooms listening to him. All pilots and aircrew volunteered to go.

“Very well, gentlemen, it’s time. Kick the tires and light the fires!”

Resounding cheers were heard throughout the carrier, and in minutes, unseen even by some high in Primary Flight Control, scores of invisible colored jackets flooded the deck forward of the carrier’s island and the kamikaze’s bomb crater. The crater, having rendered catapults three and four on the carrier’s aft port side inoperable, was now roped off, with a six-man line stationed in front of it to yell at any of the deck personnel who might back up and impede maneuvering aircraft once launch operations got under way. Elevator 1, starboard midships, forward of the island, clunked and emitted its deep hum as it descended yet again to the hangar deck to reload. High up in Vulture’s Row, the salty sea wind chilling their faces, two off-duty sailors — a young barber from Ohio and a young woman, Angela, a purple-jacketed refueler from Arkansas — held hands in the darkness, saying nothing. Their rapt attention had been captured by the wondrously unique ballet of soft yellow flashlights far below them, strobing through the sea spray in a strangely hypnotic dance of war.